Chapter 23 Derek
I was in a window seat near the front of the plane when Petrov dropped heavily into the seat beside mine. He wore sunglasses even though we were inside and drank black iced coffee out of a huge plastic cup.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “I really am getting too old for this shit.”
I hummed my agreement, taking a sip of my more reasonably sized coffee. I hadn’t slept well but it had nothing to do with going out last night.
Petrov nudged his sunglasses down and peered at me over the top of the frames. “Théo’s friend was beautiful last night.”
I shrugged. “She’s a bit young.”
“Same age like Théo, yes?”
“Probably around there.”
He took a long pull of his coffee, then added, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “He is beautiful too.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. Petrov had joined the Frost the year after I was drafted. We had been playing together for six years. Gone out together. I’d seen him take home countless women. This was the first time I had ever heard him call a man attractive. “You think so?”
He shrugged. “Don’t you?”
I glanced around reflexively and spotted Avery sitting with Kenzo a few rows back. He had on noise canceling headphones and his eyes were closed like most of the guys dozing around us. It was an early flight.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“A good hockey player notices things,” he said.
“And a mediocre one from Russia?”
Petrov scoffed. “Better than any dumb American.”
I snorted despite myself. “Fuck off, Petrov.”
“I’m just saying.” He slurped his coffee. “You watch him when he is skating. When he is at bar. When he is across the room pretending he is not watching you back.”
My grip tightened around my cup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” He pushed his sunglasses back up and leaned his head against the seat. “Look, Sullivan. I don’t give a shit who you fuck. Man, woman, figure skater with bad attitude. Not my business.”
“There’s nothing—”
“I’m not finished.” He held up one finger. “What I do give a shit is you being distracted. You almost killed me in the weight room. Your head is not in the game. This is problem.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. He wasn’t wrong.
“So whatever this is,” he continued, making a vague circle with his hand, “you figure it out. Get your head straight. Or get him out of your system. I don’t care which. Just stop being liability.”
“That’s your advice? Figure it out?”
He gave a tired little huff. “I’m Russian, not therapist.” Then he closed his eyes. “Now shut up. I’m going to sleep off hangover and pretend we never have this conversation.”
I stared at him for a long moment. Then I turned to look out the window, watching the tarmac crew load luggage below.
Petrov’s breathing evened out within minutes but I stayed awake, his words rattling around in my head.
You watch him when he is skating. When he is at bar. When he is across the room pretending he is not watching you back.
Was I really that obvious?
And more importantly—was Théo really watching me back?
I pulled out my phone before we had to switch to airplane mode. My thumb hovered over our text thread. The last message was still mine, still unanswered.
And for what it’s worth… tonight was the best night of my life. Even with the part where you ran away.
I started typing.
Have fun with Sabrina. Try not to cause too much trouble, snowdrop. Give Aspen a belly rub for me.
I hit send before I could second guess it, then flipped my phone to airplane mode and shoved it in my pocket.
Three days. I had three days to figure out what the hell I was doing.